photo by chuck entitled: cyborg
IDENTITY THIEF:I'M ON TO YOU, ASHLEY
i'm not accustomed to lines. i tend to operate during non-peak hours, skulking around town while you sleep. but last sunday, the lobby of chester creek cafe is jammed with brunchers. sunlight and crowds at the same time. it's a wonder i'm not cowering in the corner with my head between my knees breathing through a reusable grocery bag. ah, yes, i think. it is noon on a sunday. a woman in the couched lounge area is demolishing an apple, practically making out with it. i like a diner who carries an emergency apple in her purse. i should pass her a clif bar for dessert.
i give the hostess our information: christa ... table for two. smoking ... er, nevermind.
an old man and an old woman are sharing a small bench and when their table is ready, fannie nudges me and nods toward the chair. i quickly scan the waiting area for pregnant women, elderly, limpers, the tousled hair of a hangover victim, then decide we are okay in taking a seat.
except the bench is small. very small. fannie and i simultaneously look at the bench, look at each other, mentally add the sizes of our own asses together -- adding a few inches on both side for comfort. but this isn't computing. neither of us has a huge can. we don't, like, beep when we move backward.
fannie looks confused.
"were they both sitting here?" i ask her.
"i'm not sure how ...?" she responds.
we shrug and both lower ourselves onto the bench. giggle and jump back up. it's not going to work. she lets me have the seat. i'm older than her.
we are told it will be a 15 minute wait.
ashley arrives about four minutes after us, and gives the hostess her information: ashley, table for two. she is in her 20s, a sort of au natural pretty with dirty blonde curls in a low pony tail of convenience.
we are still waiting for a table when fannie says: "the hostess just called 'christa' and that girl said she was you."
i refuse to believe this is possible. but the hostess is directing ashley and her friend to a table. i look at the list and see my own named crossed off, while ashley's is not. when the hostess returns i tell her: "that wasn't christa, i'm christa."
the waitress's eyes get wide. "you're right!" she says. "that was ashley!"
luckily another table had just opened up, so we didn't have to throw down in the parking lot. i was identity theived. i wouldn't have pegged ashley as the type. there i go judging again ...
PIZZA MAN DISSES ITS MOST LOYAL CUSTOMER
"lets order pizza."
"pepperoni. ... and cheese bread."
"what was our easiest food decision ever."
[a conversation where i take liberties with the term "verbatim"]
"what are those?" i point to two mounds of tin foil.
"i didn't order garlic bread. ... in fact, i ordered cheese bread."
"um ... that must just be for free."
"where's my coke?"
"we actually ran out of coke. that's probably why you got the free garlic bread."
"how do you 'run out of coke?' is there a world shortage of coke? and why would you think garlic bread, a solid, would be a good substitute for coke, a liquid."
"um ... you should call the store and have them credit you with a free coke for next time."
"um ... you should direct your happy pizzaman ass to the ghetto spur and get me a coke!"
yesterday i slept until 6 p.m., rolled over and immediately began watching "battlestar galactica" on chuck's laptop. it's called "a bed-in": where i am an achey, phlegm filled, drooling mess of throb. chuck agrees to sympathetically stream the video. sprawled on our stomachs, heads propped on pillows, moving pictures on screen, updating me on the ebbs of the plotline when i get narcoleptic --10 minute comas per episode.
today i go to walgreen's to scrounge a sam's club worthy supply of theraflu for dinner, and think: i would be more surprised if my brain wasn't bleeding than to find out it is bleeding.
the woman in front of me in line has vertigo. it seems impossible. a few days ago i wrote the line "ninnies with vertigo" now vertigo is in front of me and needs help finding over the counter vertigo medication.
i wonder if i conjured her, or if i'm just super lucky?
meanwhile, over my shoulder i hear someone threatening someone else.
"do you want me to call the police?" she says.
when i turn around, a toddler is laying on the floor near the photo counter. his mom is telling him she will call the police if he doesn't stand up. his body is limp and she is tugging on his arm.
i don't feel badly at all, being a childless adult giving her a D-minus for parenting skills. threatening to call the cops on your children is so 1987.
and then i witness another exchange that makes me wonder if there is a full mooon.
mom: "why do you need men's socks?"
teenaged daughter: "why does it matter?"
daughter stares blankly at candy, holding package of tube socks.
mom: "why do you need men's socks?!"
teenaged daughter ignores her.
mom: "i just don't understand why you need men's socks."
[here i wonder what the hells is wrong with men's socks. i've got my tootsies wrapped in a pair as we speak]
teenaged daughter: "we share socks, okay? why does it matter who's socks are who's?"
mom looks pissed.
teenaged daughter takes package of tube socks and flings them at the candy display.
they leave the store. mom wins again.
until next week, when they split the price of an ept home pregnancy test. i believe mom missed her window for "the talk." we all know what it means when a couple starts sharing socks. ...